Stop at Nothing
by shooting-stetsons
Summary: It's an Anastasia!AU. FIRST CHAPTER DRASTICALLY EDITED SO PLEASE RE-READ.
1. Chapter 1

They had been mere children, blooming young adults of 12 and 14, when John Watson began working for the Holmes family after school. His parents were dead and he needed to work to keep himself and his sister fed. Not to mention, working for the Holmes' had offered a room in the servants' wing of the enormous manor house. The prospect of a warm bed after a year living in a dirty rotting flat with no heat and an alcoholic sister was like heaven. He sent money to Harry in small portions at a time, hoping she would buy food for herself rather than booze, but then pressed her out of his mind. If she wanted to drink herself to death, it was none of his business.

John's work around the house was varied but light, mostly just garden work with occasional forays in the kitchen to cover for a sick cook. He was rarely ever allowed in the main house, but didn't mind so much as long as he could spend his nights in quiet rather than listening to his sister's nightmares. Plus he was making enough money to have Harry looked after when he joined the army in a few years.

It had been a stroke of pure chance meeting Mycroft, the eldest son of the Holmes family. John had been tending to a wilting sapling in the back garden when a shadow suddenly loomed over him. "You're the new one, aren't you?" the 22-year-old asked loftily. He was very crisply dressed despite the hot weather.

Wiping a trickle of sweat from his eyes, he nodded. "Um, I started two months ago. Can I help you with something?"

Mycroft thought for a moment before taking a half-step nearer. He carried an umbrella with him. "I think I'd like to promote you. Rather than gardening I'd like you to work solely on picking up kitchen shifts." At John's bemused look, he continued, "That will leave you with a lot of spare time. You aren't paid by the hour, but a standard weekly wage. That will not change. You will be spending your spare time looking after my brother. He does tend to get into trouble, and I think a hardworking young man such as yourself will be a good influence on him."

His stomach sank. The last thing he needed was to look after some bratty kid. But he didn't dare refuse for fear of being sacked. Mycroft immediately sent him inside to clean himself up, and was moved to a bedroom across the hall from the younger brother, Sherlock's. Though still considered a small room, it was much larger than his room in the servants' wing.

It took five minutes of firm knocking - but never pounding - on Sherlock's door before the disgruntled boy stuck his tousled his head out. John's first impression was of a pouting sneer surrounded by dark ginger curls and gray eyes. "Little brother, this is John, your new friend," the elder brother announced with a gesture to John, who shrank back from Sherlock's openly hateful stare. "Try not to break him, will you?"

A fizzle of anger passed over John like a shadow. He wasn't a _toy_.

The door slammed in both of their faces. Mycroft sighed. "He'll come round eventually," he said, and made his leave.

John went back to his new room and sat on the edge of his bed. How long was he supposed to wait for Sherlock to "come round" before they sacked him? He was determined not to be, and so waited until he heard Sherlock's bedroom door open again before jumping off the bed and rushing out to meet him. "Hi," he said breathlessly before realizing that the door had been opened by a clever rigging system. By that time the bucket of ice water had already been emptied over his head.

Fine. That was just fine. Two could play at that game.

Half of John's night was spent putting together a finely-tuned pulley and attaching it to Sherlock's door, using stuffing from the pillow he'd brought with him from the flat as a helpful projectile. It was harmless, really, but a good ice-breaker between them. Only there being something sticky to cover Sherlock with first would be better, but he would take what he could get. He went to sleep nearly vibrating with anticipation for hearing Sherlock's howl of surprise in the morning.

What he instead awoke to, rather that Sherlock's howl, was Mrs. Holmes' terrified scream as she opened her youngest son's door to be pelted from behind by an enormous wad of pillow-stuffing. John froze with terror, watching his door slowly swing open from the delicate rigging, just knowing that he was going to get the sack. There was a long silence, and then:

"Mummy, you ruined it!" whined Sherlock from the depths of his room.

Mrs. Holmes sputtered as white pillow-fluff continued to drift gently toward the floor. Her well-manicured hand froze around the frame of John's door, no doubt about to pull herself in and start in on John. "Ruined _what_, exactly?" she demanded suspiciously.

"That was intended for Mycroft!"

"Mycroft returned to London last night, Sherlock."

"Did he? Blast!"

"Watch your tongue, young man."

"But Mummy-!"

"No 'but's! You've completely ruined my hair and I have an important meeting to attend in twenty minutes! I thought you were supposed to be playing with the servant boy, not causing me more headaches!"

"But he's dull, Mummy!"

"Tough. John?" Mrs. Holmes stuck her head into John's bedroom.

John had never seen her face before. She was almost frighteningly lovely, especially when angry. Swallowing dryly, he replied, "Yes, ma'am?"

"You will be sharing a bedroom with my son from now on. Perhaps you can teach him a thing or two about responsibility for one's actions," the instructed, and then stormed off.

For several moments, John hardly dared rise from his bed, he was so stricken with fear and relief. He'd just nearly been sacked until, for some reason he couldn't explain, Sherlock had come to his rescue.

The boy in question stuck his rumpled head in the door, eyes still drooping with sleep. "Come with me," he demanded loftily. "Don't bother changing out of your pajamas. You don't have enough clothes to replace something you ruin, and pajamas don't matter. Hurry up!" He swept away down the corridor, leaving John stunned in his bed.

"Aren't we eating breakfast?" he called after Sherlock.

"Breakfast is boring!"

For another long moment, John hesitated. Then Sherlock called, "_It could be dangerous!_" and he scrambled for the door, barely pulling on his trainers before running after the younger boy. They spent the morning venturing through the thin woods behind the manor house in search of animal remains for Sherlock to ogle. John wondered what he'd meant by dangerous until they heard the barking of stray dogs that had gone feral a few years ago, and they had to hide up a tree for an hour to avoid them.

Once they'd managed to throw down enough sticks and acorns to scare the dogs away, Sherlock led the way back to the house for lunch. He'd been right; John's pajamas were ruined, but he was breathless and smiling more than he had since before his parents died. They crowded around one of the small tables in the kitchen rather than taking up space in the dining room and ate cold chicken sandwiches with a sack of what Sherlock suspected to be beaver skulls sitting at their feet.

It seemed almost indecent for John to be so happy. Weren't orphans supposed to be taciturn, stoic martyrs? Maybe John was defective, but he thought his parents would like to see him having fun. Even if that fun was hiding in trees from feral dogs.

The next few weeks of summer were spent in mostly the same fashion, though John did wear his clothes outside from then on. Mrs. Holmes seemed pleased with her younger son's progress - or at least the fact that he was staying out of her hair while she planned an important family party. "I don't really know what it's about," Sherlock explained that night as they lie awake, poring over a book about hive culture under a sloppily-constructed blanket fort. "I think it must be Father's birthday, but it seems pointless to have a party now he's dead."

"How long has he been dead?" John asked quietly.

After a moment's thought, Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not sure. He must have died before or soon after I was born, because I don't remember him at all. Mycroft does, but he gets tetchy when I pry."

"Anyone would get tetchy if you ask prying questions about their dead father."

"Would _you_ get tetchy if I asked about _your_dead parents?"

"Yes, I would," John said, and rolled over to face the other wall.

Sherlock sighed. "I wasn't _going_to," he said. "I was just wondering."

He counted to ten and rolled back over.

One day spent in the intense sunlight, for once spent idly laying beside the pond rather than dashing about the woods like lunatics. The air was heavy and thickly fragrant, bees humming around their heads. John was relaxed, blissfully so. His worries were far away, despite the fact that the summer was winding down and Sherlock would be returning to boarding school soon. Despite his haughty and sometimes outright condescending attitude, Sherlock was a surprisingly good friend and eccentrically kind. John didn't think about that, nor the fact that soon he would be 15 and leaving school to work in the city.

"You ought to be an army doctor when you grow up," muttered Sherlock.

When John looked across at him, it was to see the red-haired boy's eyes firmly shut against the sun and his hands folded under his head. "Oh? Why's that?"

"Well, since you insist on being in the army, the doctors don't die as often as ordinary soldiers."

John's throat grew tight, but he didn't reply. He didn't know how.

"Will you come back and see me at school sometimes?"

"Of course I will, if that's what you want. We can even call each other."

"Hm. Good."

He tried to imagine that his stomach wasn't squirming. Then Mrs. Holmes stuck her head out the window and shouted that some boy from school was on the phone for Sherlock. John's young companion sighed and rolled upright to answer it, leaving him in the grass until he was given work to do. By the time John returned to his and Sherlock's room that night, the younger boy was in a disastrously volatile mood over some little boyfriend of his, who had been the one to call.

"He has so much potential going to waste!" Sherlock fumed, pacing from one end of the room to the other. "He's a bloody genius, almost cleverer than me but messier, too obsessive and calculating. When Carl Powers died last year we were looking into it together, but Jim lost his focus and started going in on other things. He's a wizard at maths and history, too. But then he got it in his head that we were going to run away together and move to London, even though I've already told him I didn't want to go. Now today he calls me, wondering if I'm ready to go yet! I'm not going to drop my entire life to gad around London with him! It'd be completely miserable!"

John sat back against the side of his bed. He hadn't known Sherlock was gay.

"Stop," Sherlock snapped. "Don't look at me like that. We've shared a room for over a month and I haven't molested you, have I? Nothing's changed."

He nodded. "I know."

"Good."

John went to sleep that night, not quite relieved, but wondering. Sherlock was clever, that much was painfully obvious, but was he clever enough to see the odd, tentative thoughts and budding curiosity John had been feeling toward him? Would John get the sack if he did? It was totally wrong, they were way too young, but...maybe someday.

The day of the party came and John was sent to work in the kitchen for the evening, covering for one of the girls who'd come down with a terrible case of it's-the-weekend-I-have-a-date-fuck-you-Mrs-Holmes. He spent the day keeping Sherlock busy away from the preparations, showered off the algae, then ran to the servants' quarters to help where he could. Occasionally in the corridors he could hear Mrs. Holmes berating her son.

"Sherlock, I said not to wear the purple, it looks far too mature for you and clashes with your hair. The blue one, if you will, please."

"Mummy, can't I-?"

"No! You are not going to bother John while he's working; you can see him after the party."

"But the party's-"

"Sherlock, you are going to the party. Your brother's bringing some very important people from work, too. You ought to meet them, and then maybe you'll have an internship when you leave university too, hm? Now go change your shirt, I want you looking smart tonight. And for goodness' sake, love, wear a tie."

He chuckled to himself and stepped aside for one of the girls to get past.

Much of John's experience of the party was spent getting shouted at in the kitchen, listening to the music drifting from the ballroom - the house was so massively huge it had its own bloody ballroom - while he made tiny sandwiches for pretentious rich people. He didn't even get to bring the food out and see how swanky everything looked, but every so often he managed to sneak away and peek through the sliding wall panels until the head cook would find him and drag him back by the collar. That little trick was just one of many advantages of living in the servants' quarters. Perhaps he would show Sherlock later.

Only a few hours in did John catch a glimpse of Sherlock - all he'd ever seen before was Mrs. Holmes sitting regally at the head table - in the most unlikely of situations. He was leaning against the right-hand wall, near a window with his brother and, most surprising of all, laughing. John didn't think he'd ever seen the youngest Holmes looking so at ease. Even as he thought it, Sherlock snatched a teacake from a passing tray and palmed it across the gap to his brother with a murmured remark. Mycroft stuck it in his mouth and grinned cheekily with crumbs bursting from between his teeth; for the first time, he looked like a 22-year-old rather than a crotchety politician. As John watched the brothers laughed, then sobered slightly as Mycroft pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat. They talked about it for a few moments before Mycroft then forcibly pulled out the key for winding the watch, the part attached to the chain. He passed it to his brother who, with a puzzled frown, put it around his neck.

"Hey, what are you doing out here?" the cook barked, gripping John by the collar and dragging him away from the gap. "You're meant to be in the kitchen!"

"Okay, okay, I'm going!" groused John, trying to brush the man off.

An hour later, as John was exhaustively putting cherries on top of a pudding larger than his entire upper body, the cheery music from the party hushed. Curious, John accompanied the cart of pudding out into the ballroom and found a scrawny dark-haired boy being dragged out by two security guards. "_I swear to God, Sherlock, I'll get you for this! I SWEAR I WILL!_"

From behind his brother's back, Sherlock peered out at the boy who must be Jim with a maelstrom of fear and hate.

"_I'm going to kill you, Sherlock! I'M GOING TO KILL ALL OF YOU!_" Jim screamed just before the ballroom doors slammed shut.

The party remained subdued and skittish until Mrs. Holmes quickly got up from her place at the front of the room. "I'm terribly sorry about the interruption. You know how strong-willed little boys can be, I'm sure it's all just a big misunderstanding. Please, everyone, keep dancing! I think I see dessert coming, too!" Mrs. Holmes waved him along, and John hurried to the food table with his cart of pudding.

It was past two before the party died down, but Sherlock was already in his room when John was relieved of his duties. Sore and exhausted, he crawled into bed but rolled onto his side so he was facing Sherlock's side of the room. "How are you?" he asked quietly. Sherlock stared at him with eyes wide open, magnified by his enormous auburn curls. They were getting darker as he grew up like a beanpole. He'd grown nearly as tall as John in just the course of the summer, a full three inches that left him in agony some days.

"Jim came by."

"I know, I was in with the pudding."

Sherlock averted his eyes. "I think he's gone insane. His family has a long history of mental illness, you know. And they're very rich too, with all these resources at their hands. I think if Jim wanted to kill me, he probably could."

"But he's only twelve."

"Age hardly matters when you have money and any number of muscled idiots at your disposal."

Before he could say something stupid, John sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Do you want to build another fort and read comics?" he offered.

After a few minutes' thought Sherlock nodded and crawled out of bed with his sheets in hand. John grinned at him and dug out the torch and stack of comics from under his mattress. John fell asleep at four in the morning with his hand curled around Sherlock's, the younger boy a warm weight pressed against his side. They woke up in the morning with ink from the comics on their cheeks.

John's school resumed a week before Sherlock's, and so the boys started to see much less of each other as John spent his days learning and working while Sherlock busied himself on the grounds. On the last day of Sherlock's summer holiday John was set in the kitchen again to help prepare his last dinner at home. Mycroft was along as well for his last visit before going to France, making a proper family to-do of it. The young politician smiled broadly at John as he peered out through the sliding wall panel, in an uncommonly good mood.

"Sherlock, for heaven's sake, did you invite someone over?" he heard Mrs. Holmes snap when the doorbell rang.

"No, Mummy," replied Sherlock, puzzled.

Mrs. Holmes called for one of the maids to get the door and send away whoever it was before returning to conversation with her sons. The sound of the maid screaming followed by a gunshot echoed through the house. Instantly the family were on their feet, fast enough to knock their chairs to the floor. "Hurry, boys," she said as footsteps pounded down the corridor toward them. John threw open the wall panel and waved his arms, not wanting to shout and attract attention as his heart pounded in his ears.

They didn't see, and ran out through the other room toward the parlor. John dove back into the servants' passage and rushed toward the bedrooms, where they would likely take refuge or try to get out through a difference door. Mrs. Holmes' was on the first floor, so it was more probable for them to hide there until the coast was clear. As John followed their path he could hear the gunman - or men - thumping after him.

He ran as quickly as his legs could carry him to the panel in the parlor and swung it open with a muffled shout. Sherlock spun on his heel, ginger curls flying, and pulled back against his mother and brother to redirect them to the hidden corridor. Sherlock and Mycroft had just got inside when someone started trying to kick in the parlor door. Their mother shoved them the rest of the way in and forced the wall panel shut with a grim look.

"Mu-!" Sherlock cried before Mycroft put a hand over his mouth.

The parlor door broke open and the gun discharged with little fanfare. John grabbed Sherlock and Mycroft's arms. "I can get you out through the servants' quarters," he told them, gripping them tight and running. He felt like he was going to fall apart at the seams with terror, feeling with every second that the gunman would come upon them and mow them all down.

"Wait, I left my chain!"

"Sherlock, this is hardly the time for sentiment!" snarled Mycroft, rubbing the bite mark on his hand. "Mummy is dead and whoever's out there intends to kill us too! Now hurry up!"

Sherlock kicked and squirmed until John let him go, then bolted up ahead to vanish through another sliding panel. The two elders shot after and caught up in his bedroom just as he was digging the long silver chain from between two books. John pulled open the fireplace as the footsteps thundered nearer, then ushered them in as quickly as he could, but already knew he wouldn't be able to to get after them without giving away that they were in the walls.

"_John! John, no, John!_" screamed Sherlock, eyes wide as Mycroft held him back and John pushed the fireplace shut.

At least five gunmen flooded into the bedroom. "Where are they?" one of them demanded.

"I don't know," John said dumbly. The butt of the gun flew down onto his temple, and the world went black. 

* * *

><p>John was sent back to his sister. There was no one left at Holmes Manor for him to work for anymore. Mrs. Holmes was nothing but a drying red smear on the parlor wall. Mycroft and Sherlock managed to get out of the house alive, but somewhere between Sussex and the train station Sherlock had been lost in the chaos. His body - and the gunmen - were never found.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Alert, readers! **

**Before going on with the story, please**** go back and give the first chapter another go-round, because I've done major edits! However, if you're too lazy to do so (I would be too) I'll just sum up here: **

**Sherlock and John are both 3 years younger than they started (15 & 17 changed to 12 & 14 - I checked, 13 is the youngest age a UK resident can work as long as it doesn't interfere with school), and rather than the attack taking place during the ball it instead was moved to a night a few weeks later. Oh, also, Sherlock was ginger as a child.**_  
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**Just a note for this chapter as well, I've just generally assumed that a tour in Afghanistan is 2 years. So, with 2 years of training he would have time for roughly 2 years per tour, leaving him at 24/25 when he was shot.  
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* * *

><p><em>This was our father's pocket watch, Sherlock. It's broken.<em>

_Then why do you still have it?_

_Because it was broken on a stone when Father fell. It stopped on the moment of his death._

_So...sentiment?_

_Yes, Sherlock. Sentiment._

_But I don't understand-_

_Sherlock, I'm not going to be able to come back home for a while. Possibly a very long while. I'm going to be the assistant to the ambassador for France._

_And?_

_I know that life has not been easy for you at boarding school, and that your only friend at home is going away to school soon. I don't want you to feel alone, little brother._

_There's no difference between being alone and feeling alone, Mycroft._

_Yes, I know. But that doesn't mean I can't make you a promise._

_Oh?_

_Yes. I want you to have the chain and key of Father's watch. That way you know we'll have to see one another again no matter what._

_But I thought-_

_I'm considering having it repaired for you, as a coming-of-age present, and only the manufacturers in Paris are able to do so._

_But I have-_

_Exactly. Take good care of it, and we'll be together in Paris._

_I...yes, alright. Er. Thank you, Mycroft._

_You're welcome, little brother._

_What's that...isn't that...Jim, what-?_

**-Ten years later-**

The _Missing_poster slapped down onto the table in front of John, making him jump and drop his fork. "What do you think?" asked Greg with a toothy grin. "Care for one more go?"

John sighed as he regarded the blurry photograph of Mycroft Holmes' younger brother. The boy was skinny and looked a bit funny, really, with wild dark curls bigger than his own head, sharp cheekbones, and light eyes. The photo was in black-and-white with terrible contrast. One would think a government official would be able to get a decent photograph of his brother before he disappeared, but perhaps this stern, unsmiling smudge of a young man was the greatest likeness of the adolescent brother at his best. He didn't look like the happy child John remembered.

He slid the poster slowly across the table. "Is this going to be like Majorca?" he asked at last.

Shaking his head, Greg patted the poster almost frantically. "Nah, mate, come on! How was I supposed to know she had a twin sister? It was just a fluke, but this is ironclad. It might have been after your time, but this kid's been missing for ten years and the brother's still got a reward out for whoever finds him. Yeah, he's a bit funny looking, but it's easy for a kid with a couple hundred quid to dye his hair, maybe even get some plastic work done if he didn't wanna be found, right? It doesn't have to be exact, just close enough."

Still thinking hard on it, John was silent as Greg slid into the chair across from him. "I just don't know about it," he continued to agonize, feeling vaguely sick to his stomach. "Mycroft Holmes is in a really high position of power; it wouldn't do to get on his bad side. We're broke as it is, you know."

"I know, John, but we're also really fucking clever. Besides, in case you've forgotten, we both worked for The Holmes' before the massacre. If there were any two people in the world who could be authorities on the matter, it would be us, right?" When John didn't answer, he leaned closer. "_Right?_" he repeated cheekily.

He leaned back with a groan, tiredly rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, you're right, fine. But that doesn't change the fact that we need to get our hands on a bloke who looks like a bloody posh alien, does it?"

"Well, no, but come on, John!" Greg continued. As if on a whim he jumped from his seat and dragged John out of his, pulling him to the window of their ratty flat to look down on Montague street. "Look at all those people, John. Just _look_. There are millions of them in London; it'll be a piece of cake to find one who looks like Sharky or-or whatever his name was, and train him up to be a decent rich kid. Then we'll be rolling in so much money we won't know what to do with ourselves! We could even move into a decent flat," he added tantalizingly, like an afterthought.

It was no secret that John hated the flat on Montague Street. It had been the only place he and Harry could afford on her meager salary, and John wouldn't know until years later that the only way she made ends meet while supporting her alcoholism was to sleep with the landlord on a regular basis. He had inherited the place and started paying proper rent in the months after - well. The place had a lot of unpleasant memories, anyway.

Grabbing his cane from beside his chair at the table, John limped to the more comfortable chair in the adjacent "sitting room" and stretched his leg, which was acting up. "Gonna rain tonight," he joked.

He'd been in England from active duty for a month, but had only been home from medical rehabilitation for little over two weeks. Greg and John had met after his first active tour, when he was given a six-month break for a minor back injury. Unable to work and down on luck, John had put an inquiry in the paper for a flatmate. Enter: Greg Lestrade, fresh from divorce and being sacked from his position at Scotland Yard because of a drinking problem that had since been stomped out. John wasn't quite certain how Greg was paying for his half of the rent while out of work, but turned a blind eye so long as he could recover in peace. When the time came for him to go back to Afghanistan, he and Greg made a bargain to let him stay in the flat while he was gone, keep the place tidy and all that.

Another six months later, John came home for a two-month leave to find the flat stacked to the brim with boxes of Toshiba mobile phones, a shelf of Australian comedy flicks, and a map of Nepal that took up half a wall. "So, this is how you've been paying rent," he said mildly in response to Greg's terrified, "Didn't know you would be back so soon!"

Instead of spending his leave getting shitfaced and sleeping his way around the city like he'd originally planned, John learned how to pull a con. He and Greg made three months' worth of rent on the job with the mobile phones, even when he didn't understand a bit of what was going on. It was easy enough once one learned the proper formula and made connections, and soon enough they had a tidy little business running from Montague Street. John had gone back to Afghanistan three days later.

They carried on in that fashion over John's next two-year tour, giving any help he could over emails or when he was home. Even though John had been trained by some of the best army doctors in Britain during his time abroad, it wasn't enough to get him a medical degree and he couldn't afford med school, so he kept up happily with the jobs he could do. He knew that he was going to get hurt abroad soon enough; it was inevitable. Soldiers who weren't injured on their first tour were twice as likely to be on their second, and three times as likely on their third. John was going in for his third, and wartime statistics prevailed.

A year into his third tour he was shot in the shoulder and had his leg embedded with shrapnel tending to one of his men, cooked up malaria while recovering, and was shipped to Britain as soon as he could sit up on his own. Two weeks in rehab and intense physical therapy later, and John was home at last. Greg hadn't known how to act around him for the first day or two, until John snapped at him and he started treating him like a normal human being again. Sure, he couldn't go up and down the stairs for a full week after getting home, but now he was able to teeter around more steadily than before. Still.

"You're doing the legwork, mind," he reminded Greg.

The older man nodded. "Of course."

"And we'll need a bigger place to meet people. We're likely to get a lot of potentials with a grainy photograph."

"Naturally."

"Ideas?"

"About a dozen."

"Isolated location?"

"Um...okay, ten ideas."

"Away from CCTV?"

"Six, then."

"Somewhere we could live for a few days without catching something, and I can get around with my bum leg?"

Greg thought for a long moment, then nodded. "Yep, I've got it. The very last place Holmes will ever look."

"Oh?"

"His old house," Greg winked. "It's been abandoned since the massacre, hasn't it? It's massive, it's private, and easy to find. Can't argue with that logic, can you? We've got some money left from the deposit on the Majorca job that we can use for train tickets and the trip to France."

John looked up from the hole in his jumper. "I thought you were supposed to give that back. You know, because we didn't actually do the job?"

"John, we're con men. Cheating people out of their money is sort of what I do best," he explained with a roll of his eyes.

With a pat to John's shoulder he went back to the kitchen and began making the necessary plans. John dozed fitfully in his chair like a crotchety old man until it was socially acceptable for him to actually go to bed, but by then his leg had seized up and the pain in his shoulder had bled all the way through to his chest. He shuffled his feet on the floor to try getting some purchase, then sighed when it became fruitless. "Greg," he called quietly over his shoulder. Without a word the other man got him up out of his chair and watched him hobble to his bedroom.

By the end of the week everything was in order. Viewings of potential lookalikes would take place in two weeks at the former Holmes manor, and in two days John and Greg would leave to get the place cleaned up a bit. After that it was simple going through the different candidates, if only because they were all such idiots. Almost a constant stream of them came through the hastily-improvised stage in the Holmes' ballroom until they had interviewed at least a hundred men - and one bemused young woman who thought it had been a play audition, where it wouldn't matter if she played a man for a while.

"Oh, this is hopeless," John moaned once they'd shown the girl out, dropping his head into one hand. "Everyone we've seen either looks nothing like the picture or is a bloody idiot who would blow our cover in about two seconds. Holmes is a clever bastard, and we have to be cleverer."

"I know," agreed Greg immediately, impatiently tapping his pencil against the tabletop as the next candidate came in: right coloring, right build, though his cheekbones were a bit lacking and ideally he would be a bit younger. He was wearing an enormous green coat, which he dropped to the floor with a dramatic shout of, "Brother! Have no fear, it is I, Sherlock!"

John dropped his head onto the table with a thunk.

As night fell on the fourth day of auditions, while John and Greg were huddled in the kitchen scraping together a meal from their meager supplies, there was a faint sound from the remains of the ballroom. Their week's worth of experience in the abandoned manor showed that a few small animals and copious rodents had inhabited the ghost town of a house, but the sound was different that night. It sounded like one of the many planks boarding up the shattered windows falling to the floor. He and Greg exchanged a grim look; they had sternly instructed that anyone coming to try out as Sherlock Holmes would not be allowed in before or after the allotted times. "Break in?" asked John.

Shrugging, Greg replied, "Could be local kids."

A gruff, wheezing bark echoed through the corridors. John thought of the feral dogs that roamed the surrounding woods, but it didn't quite sound like the ones from his childhood. He still had occasional dreams about those long summer days. Still, the pair of them got up from the table - John's equilibrium had much improved since they'd made this disastrous plan - and sought out the source of the noise.

"_Toby! Toby, get back here!_" a young man's voice called in a strained whisper, accompanied by the cracking and breaking of more boards. How was his voice echoing so well?

Rather than using the main entrance to the ballroom, where John anticipated the sound was coming from since it had the most windows, he directed them toward the small corridors behind the walls in order to take the kid by surprise. He didn't sound all that much younger than John, really, but young enough to be easily intimidated by a soldier. They found the sliding wall panel ajar, and looked in at the kid and his dog - a stocky basset hound sniffing eagerly around - as he wandered the room. His features were blurred in the fading twilight, but he seemed tall, taller than John, skeletally thin, and had dark hair that curled wildly around his head.

The kid touched a tablecloth coated in inches of dust, randomly put an overturned chair back to rights, inspected the decorative urns and china under the window, and started humming a waltz softly to himself. He pulled his long ratty coat more tightly around himself, seeming to shrink slightly.

John stepped out of the wall panel, having seen enough. "Hey!" he barked.

Spinning in place with hair flying about, the kid froze for a nanosecond before bolting in the opposite direction. "Toby, come!" he shouted over his shoulder as he started climbing up the stairs. As John started limping off after him, the dog named Toby idly waddled his way and sniffed John's shoes, lazily wagging its tail. The kid stopped. "_Toby!_" he repeated, sounding infinitely more petulant in the face of the dog's insubordination.

"Wait a second!" John ordered, using his most commanding voice. "I mean it, kid, I'll keep your dog." He stepped nearer the boy, stopping at the bottom of the main staircase. "Now are you going to come down and tell me what you're doing here, or will I have to exert my bad leg?" He stood at parade rest and waited.

"It's not as bad as you think it is," the kid said after a moment's thought, slowly taking a few steps down. "There's definitely an injury, but it's partially psychosomatic as well. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked. "Er. Afghanistan. How-?" he began, then shook his head. That seemed very familiar somehow. "What are you doing here?"

There was a scrape of boot soles on the carpet as the kid took another handful of steps down. As he got closer his features became clearer: sharp cheekbones, very light gray - or were they blue? green? - eyes, pale skin, curly blackish hair, clear signs of malnutrition and recent illness. "I heard you could help me get to Paris."

He raised his eyebrows. "Paris?"

"I need to find a particular shop, a watch shop," the kid elaborated, digging into the collar of his shirt for something.

The longer John looked, the more he realized why the young man seemed so familiar. He looked a bit like a posh alien despite the grubby clothes, and very confident despite his poor state. As he finally landed on the bottom of the stairs John slowly circled him, trying to get a better look. The kid followed him with suspicious narrow eyes. "What's your name? he asked.

"Adam."

"Adam what?"

He shrugged.

"You don't know your own surname?" John asked.

Again, the boy named Adam shrugged and started toying with the silver chain around his neck. "Adam isn't even really my name. Or at least I don't think it is. The people who found me were religious. I was young, and afraid, and didn't remember who I was, so they told me the story of Adam to make me feel better. I kept the name as a token when I went to the orphanage. Now will you take me to Paris?"

John looked over his shoulder at Greg and minutely shook his head - _leave this to me_- before turning back to Adam. "Well, I really would like to help," he grimaced. "Unfortunately, my friend and I only have three tickets back to Paris." Adam raised his eyes at the number, and he continued, "The spare ticket is actually for Sherlock Holmes. You've heard of him?"

Another shrug. "Everyone's heard of Sherlock Holmes around here. But what's it have to do with me?"

"You know, you look a bit familiar," Greg finally spoke up from somewhere behind John. "Have we met? Or do I know your parents, maybe?"

"I don't know, do you?" asked Adam sardonically, but there was a hint of hope in his eyes.

Greg stepped closer, making a show of inspecting the boy's features. There was a conspiratorial glint in his eyes as he glimpsed at John over Adam's shoulder. "Nah, maybe not," he dismissed after a few minutes. "I think - you know what I think it is? You look a lot like the Holmes boy. I mean, not even just a bit or a hint, you look a_ lot_like him." To prove his point, Greg pulled the photograph of 12-year-old Sherlock from his pocket and showed Adam. "See what I mean?"

Closely examining the photograph for several moments, Adam bit his lip, then shrugged and handed it back. "I suppose there's a resemblance," he muttered, sounding uncomfortable, "but I couldn't possibly be..."

"Why ever not?" asked Greg innocently. "You don't remember who you are, do you? You look like this kid, don't you? You're looking for a watch shop in Paris, aren't you? Well that's where Mycroft Holmes is, and that's just too weird not to be a coincidence, isn't it?"

"You ask too many questions," Adam frowned.

"But it's true."

"Not true at all."

"You have the Holmes eyes," continued Greg as though Adam had never spoken. "Doesn't he, John?"

John made a show of peering into the boy's eyes. "Yes, I suppose they're similar. It's really - really the face, though, that gets me. Looks just like Adella. But, you know, it's fine, whatever. You obviously aren't interested and we obviously can't take you unless you're Sherlock Holmes. So, just forget it. Get your dog, we'll forget you broke into our house and wish you the best of luck."

With a whack to Greg's arm, he turned on his heel and started walking away. In his head, he counted to ten before he heard another scuffle and the boy shouted, "Wait! Wait a minute!" They turned back, Toby at their toes, and watched Adam clomp closer in his too-big boots. "I'm coming with you to Paris. You have no idea who I am, I have no idea who I am, so the chances of me being Sherlock Holmes are almost astronomically high and it would be stupid of you not to return me to my family. I demand you take me, or I'll tell the authorities you're living here illegally. And sic my dog on you."

The dog in question snuffled and piddled on John's shoe. "I'm sure he's ruthless," he said dryly, then clapped his hands. "Well, kid-"

"-Adam. My name is Adam."

"Well, Adam, you're really twisting my arm, but you know what? I like your attitude."

"Reminds me of Mycroft," intoned Greg loftily from the side.

John nodded sagely along. "Yes, exactly what I was thinking. We may have just found the long-lost Holmes brother." Adam's eyes lit up, but he didn't smile or outwardly react other than that. "We're leaving in a week, taking the train to Portsmouth and a boat across the Channel, should take all day. We'll stop for the evening at a motel, then make our way for Paris. Is that acceptable to His Highness?" he asked as though the whole thing were a heavy burden on his shoulders.

"Fine," Adam allowed after a long moment of thought, crossing his arms and looking downright regal as he turned up his nose. Even in his ratty, dirty clothes, he looked like a bloody prince. Greg was probably going to punch him before all this was over.

The three shook hands on it.

"The dog's not coming with us."

"Yes he is."

"No, Adam, the dog is not coming with us-"

"Yes he is! _Yes he is, he is coming with us! I rescued him from feral strays! He is my dog, you can't just-!_"

"Fine, bloody fine, the dog stays!"

Adam grinned wolfishly. They'd given him an inch, and it seemed clear that he would take the whole mile.


End file.
